


Wipe the Slate Clean

by AntiMaterielGirl



Series: Bowed But Unbroken [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol, Cigarettes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiMaterielGirl/pseuds/AntiMaterielGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the main storyline, a good karma female Lone Wanderer buys Charon's contract, in an effort to forget. It's not necessarily a slow burn; I tried to make the progression as natural as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Idle Thoughts

_I am a stone._

_Cold, hard, silent._

_Stones do not feel. Stones do not think. Stones do not question._

Thinking this makes it easier. Focuses his mind.

A distant memory shimmers; an old story. Two brothers, one murdered by the other. Jealousy and rage. The murderer bearing the mark of his hideous crime; isolation and suffering.

_The first weapon._

_A stone._

Inwardly, he smiles –  _how appropriate._

Like a mirage in the desert, the memory vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

His programmers took many things from him – the bulk of his memories, his free will, maybe even his humanity – but they allowed him to retain emotions. Perhaps they had tried, and found it impossible to extract from him his ability to feel. He used to think it a small mercy, but it became an unspeakable curse.

_The things I've seen…_

_The things I've done…_

_NO._

_I am a stone._

Shifting his weight, he settles in for another long day in his stuffy, dingy corner in the Ninth Circle.


	2. The Value of a Man

The heavy wooden door creaks, and the young woman strides in, swiftly, confidently. She is muscular but not overly so – her movements are efficient, no energy wasted on unnecessary gestures. She briefly locks eyes with him as she passes, a hard, deep blue. It momentarily startles him – most  _ghouls_  can't meet his stare, much less seek it out. This smoothskin is bold; arrogant even.

She sidles up to the bar to chat up Ahzrukhal. "So, who's that guy in the corner?" she says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

Charon has heard this conversation many times over the years – he is aware of how much attention that a nearly seven-foot tall ghoul attracts. He's not exactly inconspicuous, even parked in a dark, stuffy corner. He tunes them out and studies her appearance. Combat armor, patched and scuffed, small spatters of dried blood. Her boots are worn and dusty, the laces mismatched. Her dark blond hair tied at the back of her head to keep it off her neck in the heat and humidity – or maybe to conceal its state of unwash.

The muffled metallic thump of a bag of caps connecting with the bar – large by the sound of it – returned Charon's attention to the conversation. Ahzrukhal says, "I suppose that could work... yes. Yes... here's the contract. And I'll take my payment in full." Then: A rustle of paper; a pause. "I'll give you the pleasure of informing Charon yourself."

The young woman strides to his corner. "Hello, Charon – I'm Olivia."

"Talk to Ahzr-" he starts.

She raises her right hand in a  _stop_  gesture, then taps the left side of her chest. "Slow down, there. I have good news. I'm your new employer."

After a start, he replies, "You purchased my contract from Ahzrukhal? So, I am no longer in his service. That is good to know. Please, wait here. I must take care of something."

"Whatever you need to do." Olivia lifts her left forearm to her face and begins to fiddle with her Pip Boy, considering her next stop, when a deafening shotgun blast obliterates the sedate atmosphere of the small bar, swiftly followed by a second. Azhrukhal, a bloody mess, lay behind the bar, the caps he was counting strewn across his body. In a smooth, practiced motion, Charon coolly holsters his weapon.

Shocked, she exclaims, "Whoa! What the fuck was that?"

"Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract, I was honor bound to do as he commanded. But now you are my employer, which freed me to rid the world of that disgusting rat. And now, for good or ill, I serve you."

She sighs, then smiles. "C'mon, big guy. Let's go bust some heads."


	3. Strolling the Mall

On the outside steps to the History Museum, she lights a cigarette and inhales, lazily. She exhales through her nose, savoring the sensation of hot tobacco smoke in her nasal passages. She parks the cigarette between her lips, and drawls around it, "First stop is Megaton – we gotta get you some decent armor. That ratty shit you got won't last long out here."

Charon shrugs. "If you wish."

Olivia hitches her pack, and heads down the stairs. "Indeed I do. It appears that you know your way around a shotgun, at least. "

"I am proficient."

She grunts. "Not much of a talker, huh?" She kicks a small rock, and sends it skittering across the courtyard.

"No. Do you wish me to be?"

She turns to face him, her expression incredulous. "Wait a second – did Ahzrukhal order you to be quiet?"

"My orders were to speak only if spoken to."

"Good grief. Well, that's gonna have to change." She spins on her heel and starts hiking toward the metro, Charon following at just beyond arm's distance, deferentially. "Do you have new orders for me?" He asks.

After a few measured strides, she replies, "Yeah. The last thing I want is the guy who's supposed to protect me not talking. If you have something to say that might help, say it."

"As you command."

Olivia grasps the rusty gate to the Mall metro, wrenches it open, and steps inside. Charon follows.


	4. Getting Acquainted

This was the most excitement that Charon had experienced in years. Tossing drunks and intimidating the occasional rowdy got boring when you did it for over a decade.  _Fuck's sake,_ he thinks,  _I can't even remember how long I was stuck there._

It took about ten minutes for his new employer to start issuing orders. This intrigues him – most of his employers, upon acquiring his contract, swiftly ordered him to eliminate his previous employer.  _That's not a problem._  He smirks, his expression unreadable in the darkness of the metro.

His first order: "If you have something to say that might help, say it."

His programmers had allowed him enough autonomy to be effective in combat. He could ad-lib, but he couldn't go off-script, so to speak. An order was an order. As she commands, he must obey. A strange command, this – an ambiguous one, forcing him to use his best judgment, forcing him to flex atrophied intellectual muscles.

Their footsteps echo in the empty metro, the hollow  _pop-scrapes_  rebounding off the cold concrete walls. She treads confidently, turning without second-guessing herself – she's been down here before. He studies the wooden stock of her battered but well-maintained Chinese Assault Rifle slung across her back – she's a fighter, and a fierce one.

Looking at her hair is an indulgence – most ghouls (including himself) didn't have much, and few humans were brave enough to venture into Underworld. It had been a long while since he'd seen a full head of hair – blond or any other color. He could get used to the sight.

He's thankful for the deep shadows – it gives him an opportunity to study her without detection. Of course, he may have years to study her, but the programmers hadn't taken his curiosity, either.

"Quit staring."

Surprised, he replies, "As you wish, mistress."

Her throaty chuckle confuses him. "I'm kidding. Stare all you like; most people do. Their hero, their 'Messiah.'" She snorts. "Oh, and don't call me mistress."

"What title do you prefer?"

Her jocular tone mocks seriousness. "Didn't I introduce myself at Underworld? I could swear I told you my name."

_Ah, yes._ "You wish to be called Olivia?"

"I do. I'll call you by your name, you call me by mine. Contract or not, you're now my equal. You may be tied to that piece of paper, but you aren't my slave."

He replies before he can stop himself. "You paid for me."

"Touché." They're nearing an entrance – weak sunlight struggles through the double gate, faintly illuminating the tunnel. She stops, turns, and sits down her pack with a soft  _thump_. With a hitch she hops up and settles herself on a turnstile, swinging her right leg in the air thoughtfully. She produces a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and taps them against her thigh. In a lazy, practiced flick of her wrist, she shakes out a cigarette and plucks it with her lips. The flame of the lighter illuminates her face; her features glow warmly in the shadows.  _Like an angel_ , he thinks.

She stares at him, smoking silently.

"Is there anything you require of me?" he asks.

She chuckles. "Oh no, not at all. You had plenty of time to feast your eyes on my back end. I just wanted to get a good look at you." Although embarrassed, he says nothing, betrays no emotion.

"You want one, big guy?" She offers the pack to him.

Confusion mars his features. With an evil grin, she waves the pack in the air. "Okay, these are cigarettes. Ya stick 'em in your mouth, light 'em and smoke 'em."  _She's joking with him again. Interesting._

"I know what cigarettes are," he replies, impassively. "My previous employers normally did not allow me…creature comforts."  _Now she looks confused._  "You mean – no bubble gum, no cigarettes, no liquor - nothing?"

"For the most part…no."

"Well, that shit's gonna change, too." He stands, motionless. "So – I asked you a question. Do you want one?"

"I would smoke one, if you ordered me to."

This irritates her. "Fuck, I know that!" Her voice rises, booming in the tunnels, like a vengeful god striking fear into the hearts of prostrated tribals. She takes a deep breath to calm herself. Again she asks, slowly, fully enunciating each word: "Do…you…want…one?"

He considers it. He'd smoked before the war.  _Laughing, arms around his buddies, singing. Drunk, young, carefree, cigarette hanging jauntily in the corner of his mouth._ "Yes. I would." He takes the pack, shakes out a cigarette-  _like riding a bike, you never forget -_  and lights it with the lit end of hers.  _She let me touch her cigarette,_ he muses. He hands hers back, and they smoke in contented silence.

This is different.

_I can get used to this._


	5. The Messiah Returns

The hike to Megaton is uneventful. A couple of mole rats, a radscorpion – nothing that Charon can't handle with ease.

_Still,_ Olivia thinks,  _it must feel good for him to shoot something. God only knows how long he was cooped up in that filthy_  bar.

As they approach the gate, she waves at Stockholm, the town sniper. He waves back at her, turns and shouts down behind him, "Hey Simms! It's the Vault Girl, and she's got the biggest fuckin' ghoul I've ever seen!"

"Lordy." She rolls her eyes, and addresses Charon, "I suppose I better get used to this when I travel with you. It's not like you…blend." He grunts, then nods. It bothers him, but he can't do anything about it, so he doesn't think about it much anymore. The gate opens with a loud, irritating  _screeeeech –_ metal on metal. She leans in to him, conspiratorially. "Stop following me around like a puppy dog. Try to walk next to me. Act like you're with me because you want to be, not because you have to be."

His brow furrows. "As you command."

She pivots, striding assertively down the dirt path into town. "Ah, Sheriff!" she exclaims, as she embraces a dark man in a long duster jacket, sporting a dirt-smudged cowboy hat. He pats her on the back awkwardly, the wooden gesture of a man not accustomed to public displays of affection. As she pulls away, Simms' eyes drift to Charon. "And who is this? Another one of your strays?"

"No, this is Charon. He's…a bodyguard."  _Damn, I have to tell him not to talk about the contract._

"Haha! YOU need a bodyguard? All right then. " Simms eyes Charon, cautious, but curious. "Nice to meet you, Charon. Don't you go causin' any trouble in my town."

Charon nods, his eyes drifting back to Olivia, seeking direction.

"Oh, he won't, Sheriff. He looks mean, but he won't hurt anybody." Olivia answers, hastily filling the awkward silence. Simms backs away, turns to Olivia, and says, "A man of few words. It's almost like he won't talk unless you let him."

_Shit._

"Yeah, he's a pretty quiet guy. Well Sheriff, I'm sure you got some work to do. We'll see you later. Maybe for a drink?" Simms smiles. "Maybe." He waves at them over his shoulder and returns to his rounds.

_No rest for the wicked,_  Olivia thinks.

"C'mon, Charon – my house is this way."


	6. Home Sweet Home

"Yoohoo, Wadsworth!" she calls, as she steps inside.

A Mr. Handy floats gracefully towards them. "Good evening, Madam, what can I do for you?" It asks. "I'd like something to drink." She replies. "Certainly Madam, here you are." Like a play long rehearsed, she says to the robot, politely: "Thank you Wadsworth. That will be all." Wadsworth fixes his sensors on Charon. "Wadsworth, that's Charon. He'll be living here with us from now on. Don't attack him. He's authorized to enter and leave."

"Certainly madam. As you wish." Identification scan completed, the robot butler makes his way up the stairs to an alcove where he won't be underfoot, but can respond quickly if summoned.

Charon settles into a spot between the door and some lockers, watching his employer as she rummages through her pack, putting items away. She takes other items out of a storage locker, shoving them into the space she just cleared in her pack.

Hands on her hips, she exhales loudly. "It's late. The trading can wait until morning."

She snaps her fingers and points at him. "Oh, I have a question for you – about your contract."

"Yes?"

"Do I have to have it on me all the time, or can I hide it?" she asks.

"The contract must be in your  _possession_ , not necessarily on your person." This question was pretty common; all of his employers are relieved to find out that they don't have to risk losing the contract by carrying it everywhere with them.

"But Ahzrukhal –"she starts.

"Ahzrukhal was paranoid, and for good reason. If you find a good enough hiding place, put it there, and tell no one but me."

"I'll put it in a secret compartment – a small safe I installed under the rug in the kitchen. The key will be inside the jukebox – just remove the back panel, and you'll see it. If something happens to me, and you have to get it…" she trails off, the remainder of her thought dying on her lips.

He nods.

"So Charon – you hungry?" she asks.

"Yes."

"All right." She opens the fridge, "How does steak sound? Let's celebrate the beginning of a long, beautiful partnership."

"Steak is…adequate."

Olivia rolls her eyes. "If you don't like it, speak now, or forever hold your peace." The silence was deafening. "All righty then – steak it is. I'd ask how you'd like it done, but you'd just force me to make the decision for you anyway. I guess I can't expect you to assert yourself after only a few hours."

She browns them in a pan on her hot plate, as close to medium-rare as possible. "The fresh stuff's a whole lot better than the frozen junk we had in the vault." She places the steaks on plates with utensils, and then sets them both on the coffee table in the center of the living area. "Soup's on!" She sits and starts cutting into the juicy Brahmin flesh.

Charon stands placidly next to the door. She looks up at him, exasperated. "Look, come here, sit down, and eat. It's a pain in the butt to have to give you orders for everything but taking a piss." She stiffens; eyes wide. "Wait – you don't have to piss, do you?"

"I am permitted to perform my bodily functions as needed."

"Gee, I hope that's a no. Get your ass over here and eat, then." She carefully carves a square piece off of the slab of meat, and pops it in her mouth, chewing with a contented moan.

"As you wish."

He crosses to her in two strides.  _Jesus, he's fuckin' huge._ The chair creaks under his weight, unaccustomed to the heavy load. Ignoring the utensils, he grips the steak with both hands and tears into it with gusto.

"Whoa there! You act like you hadn't eaten in a week!"  _Ah, fuck, don't tell me…fine. I have to ask._  "Charon, how long has it been since you've eaten?"

"Four days."

Stunned, she can't help but express her anger. "Holy shit – no. No, this won't happen again. You won't go hungry as long as you're with me."

"I have gone longer without food."

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" she yells, angry, indignant.

Charon puts what remains of the steak down on his plate. "Have I displeased you?"

"No…it's not that. Just – just eat. When I finish, I'll make you more." She picks up her utensils and resumes her meal.

"As you wish."


	7. A Night on the Town

_This is too good to be true._

He eats until he's satiated – the fullest he's been for a long time. He tries to match his speed of consumption to hers so she would finish after him – a sly technique he uses to ensure that his employer is not unduly inconvenienced by his needs – and she stops him, tells him to finish at his own pace.

_At my own pace. Like I am an equal._

"I guess old habits die hard, huh?" She quips.

"Yes, they do."

When he finishes eating, she asks him if he would like to join her for a drink at the bar. "You'll have to talk to people. You can't look to me to answer for you every time someone asks you a question. It's a small measure of freedom, but I'll give you as much as I can."

_Freedom? No. She can't be serious._

"I would…like that."

"Great! Let's go!"

She opens the door for him, and calls out, "See you later, Wadsworth!" before she eases it closed and carefully locks it.

A wide grin spreads across her face. "Let's go get buzzed – my treat!" She hooks her right arm in his left, skin to skin, and he stands rigid, stunned. His heart is beating like a hammer in his chest.  _A smoothskin – touching him!_

"Charon, let's go! What's the matter?" she implores, tugging gently on his arm.

"My employers do not usually…touch me." He says.

"Well, I'm not like them."  _Indeed - she is not._

"It doesn't invalidate the contract, does it?"  _Is that fear in her voice? Sadness?_

"No – it does not. Only physical violence with intent to harm or kill me would invalidate the contract."

She sighed, relieved. "Well then, you better get used to it. I'm gonna be touching you a lot from now on."

_WHAT?!_

"Oh. My. God." She looks away, her cheeks deep crimson. "I didn't mean it like  _that._  Wow, uh… this is awkward." She looks up at him and chuckles. "Let's go, big guy – I'm thirsty."

* * *

The door to the bar swings wide, and as soon as Gob sees Olivia, he beams with happiness. "The Vault Girl returns!" He lifts his hands skyward in mock supplication. A moment later, Charon's massive frame crosses the threshold, and Gob's eyes widen in fright. The poor little ghoul begins to shake, and Olivia moves quickly to allay his fears.

"Do…do you know who that is?" His voice wavers. The poor guy is terrified.

"Yes, Gob, this is Charon. He's travelling with me now." She slips into a barstool, motioning for Charon to join her.

Stepping back tentatively, Gob inquires, "Oh, I see. And Ahzrukhal….?"

"-is dead. Three guesses who did the deed, and the first two don't count." His gaze searches Charon's placid face. The ghost of a satisfied smirk flits across Charon's lips. Gob snorted. "Good. That bastard got what he deserved."

Both Olivia and Gob are startled by his gravelly voice, unprompted. "No – he deserved much, much worse."  _Here we go. Let's try freedom on for size._

Olivia smiles. "It speaks!" The corners of his mouth bend upward, almost imperceptibly. She raises her arms to the sky. "It smiles!" She rests her elbows on the bar. "Gob, my friend and I came to enjoy an alcoholic beverage in your fine establishment. I'll have a beer. Charon?"

_Friend?!_

"I will have a beer as well."

They sit and drink in comfortable silence. They order a second round, then a third. Charon stops when Olivia, quite tipsy, orders another. He explains, "I must remain vigilant. I cannot perform my duties if I am intoxicated." In truth, he is nowhere near drunk – liquor and chems aren't nearly as potent to ghouls as they are to humans; even so, he is a large ghoul – it would take an enormous amount of liquor to dull his senses.

"Whatever you say, boss." She giggles at his confused expression, and thows her arm around his wide shoulders, giving him a gentle squeeze. He grunts, and she throws her head back, releasing a full, throaty laugh.

His heart skips a beat.

_I could get used to this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tension begins...delicious!


	8. Errands and Generosity

He carries her home, slung over his shoulder. She sings – a raucous drinking song – the whole way.  _She's gonna wake the whole town,_ he thinks. No – she saved this town. She could get away with anything short of murder, and they'd still idolize her.

They enter her home. No –  _their_  home now. "Mmm…Just take me upstairs and toss me on the bed."

He obliges.  _What a fine night this was turning out to be,_ he muses.  _Beer, freedom to speak, eating as fast or slow as he pleases…touched by a smoothskin._ As he turns away from the bed, she tenderly grasps his forearm, eyelids half-closed. "Thank you," she slurs, tongue heavy with drink. Her fingers linger for a second too long, before her arm drops to the bed, and she drifts gently off into sleep.

Sitting in the chair near the bed, he listens to her soft snores. She falls to sleep as soon as her head hits the pillow. " _Dad…no. Don't…go,"_  she murmurs softly. She quiets, and he dozes lightly, guarding her still form.

* * *

He wakes from a light doze, glances to the bed, and – meets her beautiful, smiling face. Her body is motionless, but her azure eyes dance with curiosity.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." She purrs.  _How long was she watching me?_

"Ready for breakfast?" She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, sitting straight up. Holding her head. "Ugh. I should have known better than to stay for that third beer."

"You mean sixth."  _He wasn't given express permission to correct her, but then again – he wasn't told that he couldn't._

"No wonder I have a headache. I hope I didn't make too big of an ass of myself." She stands and makes her way into the kitchen downstairs. Charon follows – as he turns the corner, he hears the distinctive  _hiss_  and  _clink_  of a bottle cap being removed.  _Yep – another beer._

"Hair of the dog, good buddy – the best hangover remedy. But just one." She grabs two boxes of Fancy Lad's Snack Cakes from a nearby shelf, and tosses him one. "Don't say I never gave you nothin." They sit at the table and eat in silence. When she finishes her beer, she doesn't open another one.  _Good._

"Sorry about last night. I know you've spent plenty of time around drunks for…well, a long time. I didn't mean to get drunk."

"No problem."

She crosses her legs, and glances at her PipBoy. "I have some trading to do over at Craterside Supply. Care to join me?"

"Yes. I can't protect you if we are separated."

"All right. Let's go."

* * *

Olivia greets Moira warmly. Acrid smoke hangs in the stuffy air of the trading post. "Don't mind the smoke – it's safe to breathe, really!" Moira assures her. When she sees Charon, she can't contain her excitement. "Whoa, you're an awful big fella – nice to meet ya!" She holds out her hand, and after a nod from Olivia, he shakes it.

"This is Charon – I'll be travelling with him from now on."

"Super! I bet you'll be pretty safe with him there. He looks like he can just  _stare_  a hole into somebody!" She giggles, cheerily. "What do you need?"

They haggle and barter over the contents of Olivia's pack for a good fifteen minutes. Olivia leaves with some ammo, a pack for Charon, and some combat armor that she can use to patch up a set at home into something that will fit her massive companion. Moira gets some small handguns, a fair amount of chems, and few bottles of scavenged liquor out of the deal.

Once outside, he turns to her, hesitantly. "So, is she…?" he mimes a slow circle with his finger, next to where his ear used to be.  _Completely nuts?_

Olivia snorts. "Maybe. She's so cheerful, it's nauseating sometimes."

"All right – one last stop for today." She heads up the ramp to her left, toward the water pump. Walter is standing outside, enjoying the fresh morning air. "Heya, Walter – wanna buy some scrap metal?" she asks. "Sure, missy!" a smile lights up his face. "How much you got?"

"Well, I've got ten of 'em, but – aw, heck – just take it. It's on the house."

"Wow for free? Megaton sure appreciates your generosity!" He smiles, scoops up the scrap, and heads inside before she can change her mind.

_The wasteland's very own Messiah indeed,_ Charon thinks.  _I sure hope this town realizes how very lucky it is to have her._

He had employers in the past that weren't bad. They didn't engage in charity, but they did have mercy, of a kind.  _That's the trouble with the contract,_ he thinks, sorely.  _The people who are not repulsed by the idea of owning another don't tend to be the most kind or charitable._

"Let's go home, Charon. We have packing to do."

_Home._

_I could get used to this._


	9. A Slight Misunderstanding

They spend the next week in Megaton. After all, Olivia does live there. Not only that, she's a fixture in the small community. She gets caught up on the town gossip, and shares what news she's managed to glean from other wastelanders during her travels.

After a pleasant lunch chatting with Jenny Stahl at the Brass Lantern, she and Charon sit puffing on cigarettes at the counter in contented silence. Jenny stands a few feet away, cleaning a glass with a dingy rag. "Uh oh!" she whispers. "Incoming!" Olivia's gut twists. It can be only one person – Billy.

Billy Creel had a crush on her from the moment she walked in, dirty and dazed by the sunlight, straight from the vault. She was softer then; more naïve – but Billy's infatuation didn't fade with time and rejection. He'd been gone for a while, likely scavenging and trading, and spotted her sitting at the lunch counter on his way home.

She stubs out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray, shifts to her left and whispers, "Charon – can you do me a favor? A guy's gonna come up and start to sweet talk me. Get him to go away."

_A favor? Ha! No orders now, huh?_

"Why, hello sunshine – my day just got brighter now that you're in it!"  _Ugh, how corny._

Jenny groans. "C'mon, Billy. She ain't interested. How many times has she told you no?"

"Seven. But there's always a chance the next time." Billy smiles. "So, whaddaya say, sunshine – wanna have a drink with me tonight?" He lays a hand on her right shoulder. "Come on - AAAAAGGGHHH!" Charon had reached over her, and snatched Billy's hand, lightning-quick. He squeezes tightly and savagely twists Billy's wrist, the bones popping audibly.

"Charon, STOP!" Olivia screams, in near panic. He obediently releases Billy's hand, and Billy crumples to his knees, cradling his arm, moaning in pain. Charon asks, coolly, "Have I displeased you? I followed your instructions. I made him stop." he continues to sip his Nuka-Cola as if nothing had happened.

"Goddammit." He's right – she didn't specify what method Charon used to make Billy go away – she just wanted him to go away. "Billy – go see Doc, and tell him I'll pay him for your treatment." Billy slowly rises, aided by Confessor Cromwell, who witnessed the whole incident and rushed to provide whatever aid he could. As the priest leads him away, Billy looks over his shoulder, glancing nervously at the enormous ghoul. He hadn't thought they were together. Cromwell herds him into the Clinic, and away from prying eyes.

"He should not have touched you." Charon growls.

Once Billy is out of earshot, Jenny can't hold back her excitement any longer. "Wow! That was…amazing!" The few townspeople who had witnessed the incident were no longer staring – sure, it would be hot gossip for the next five years, but most of them had seen Billy's pestering first-hand. He had it coming to him, many of them think. He's lucky it wasn't worse – his kid was over playing with the Simms boy – at least she didn't see it. Jenny is giddy, ecstatic – she was standing just feet away from where it all happened. She alone would run the gossip mill for a week! The caps would come rolling in, as the townsfolk who didn't witness the excitement stopped by for a bite to eat and some juicy details.

"Are you finished?" Olivia asks Charon, after a few minutes of painful silence. "I have to get to the Clinic and pay Doc Church." He stubs out the remainder of his cigarette. "Yes."

They slide off their stools and stride across the wide dirt path. After climbing the steps to the Clinic, Olivia said, "Stay here."

_Outside the door?_ "I can't protect you if we are separated."

She carelessly reprimands him. "I don't need protecting right now. I need you to follow orders." The words feel like lead in her stomach – made worse by his response. Face blank, impassive, eyes glassy, he replies, "As you command." Tears shimmer in her eyes. She wipes them dry, then turns away from him and enters the Clinic.

* * *

"This is impressive. You say he just twisted your wrist?" Doc Church is studying x-rays, either unable or unwilling to engage his dismal bedside manner. Billy is seated on a bed, still moaning in pain. Confessor Cromwell had evidently returned to his church after depositing Billy in the Clinic.

Olivia walks into the room, glances at Billy. "Doc, tell me you gave him something."

Irritated, Doc Church replies with a dismissive wave, "Of course I gave him something. It should be kicking in any minute now. The big baby."

He points to an x-ray film on his light box. "Look at that. Clean, quick. Snapped it like a dry twig. There are a few bones in his hand that are fractured as well; crushed. The man that did this must be incredibly strong."  _You could say that again._

"I'm paying his bill, Doc – how much?"

He replies, absentmindedly, "Oh, uh…two-fifty should do it. Just toss it on the desk." Stunned, Oliva blurts, "two-fifty?! That's highway robbery!" "Young lady, it's nothing of the kind. Do you know how hard it is to get good x-ray films out here? I had to see this for myself. I get lots of people in here whining about radiation, bullet wounds, and cuts and scrapes from bar fights, but a broken bone like this one is a treat." He shakes his head, and says, "Billy – whoever you pissed off, you best steer clear of him. This could just as easily have been your neck."

He leans over to Olivia, conspiratorially. "He says it was a gigantic ghoul that did it. Anything to save a bit of pride, eh?"

"Yeah. I'll see you later, Doc."

"Sure. Don't be a stranger!" He turns back to the x-rays, as enraptured a man of science could ever be.


	10. Cry Me a River

Stepping out of the clinic, fatigue settles onto Olivia's shoulders, a palpable weight. She glances at Charon, and an emotional burden is added to her discomfort. "Let's go home and pack. We're leaving tomorrow."

Charon obediently follows at arms-length behind her. His face impassive, he betrays no emotion. His old mantra resurfaces:

_I am a stone._

_Cold, hard, silent._

_Stones do not feel. Stones do not think. Stones do not question._

If he could not feel, her words could not wound him.

_Friend. Home. Freedom,_ he thought, bitterly.  _All lies._

_I am a stone._

Once inside, he takes his place beside the door.

She stands at the foot of the stairs, unable to look at him. The past six months – the death of her father, the loss of Dogmeat, the pleading eyes of destitute wastelanders, wanting just another piece of her, until it seemed like there was nothing left to take – it feels like lead in her belly. She had not cried, as badly as she had wanted to – her cheeks remained dry, even after her one-woman assault on the Enclave. She could grieve later – she had no choice.

Later was now.

His behavior; his body language sears her already aching heart. She had wounded him. Even worse – she had allowed him simple pleasures that were the birthright of every man – a measure of free will, the ability to make choices for himself, the freedom to come and go as he pleased – and then cruelly, with a mere six words – stripped him of his dignity.

He had just wanted to please her.

She is worse than Ahzrukhal. She had given him hope, then torn it away. It is more than cruel – what she had done is  _monstrous._ Her face twists in a grimace of pain and self-hate. Tears cloud her eyes, roll down her cheeks. She crumples to the floor, sobbing violently.

Sobbing for her father. Sobbing for a brave canine companion, forever lost. Sobbing for  _him_ , a being who refuses to weep.

Tears pour from her eyes; stream down her face. Her nose is running, but she neither cares nor notices – consumed with grief, her appearance means nothing to her.

Abruptly, a heavy hand on her shoulder. Charon, kneeling. "You do not have to cry for me."

She wails. Sobs rack her body – the body that had restored the water purifier. The body that had crippled the Enclave. Bowed, broken – by the purchase of a contract. The purchase of a man.

Exhausted, she feels herself lifted, cradled in his arms. Like the first night, he deposits her gently on her bed. She turns away from him toward the wall – consumed with shame. She had treated him like a piece of property. How she will live with that, she does not know. She howls, clenches her hands, rages at herself.

Eventually, she sleeps.

She dreams of the vault, a jumble of images – dad is alive again, smiling. Jonas teases her, makes her blush. She challenges Butch; standing up for Amata, her friend. Freddy's heavy gaze, unrequited. Her dreams become misty, hazy. She feels Charon's strong, leathery arms enveloping her; his lips on her throat. Her body quivers, melts into his. They become one.

When she awakes briefly during the night, she senses him next to her. He had not only laid her down, he had held her until she fell asleep.

Too tired to protest, she closes her eyes and sleeps once more.


	11. One Soul Broken, the Other Bound

He lays her on the mattress, plagued by indecision. She is his employer. She needs him.

But he is not programmed for this. For the first time in his memory, he does not know how to proceed. Her tears leave wet streaks on his armor. He strips it off. He doesn't know what he needs to do, but he knows that armor won't help him.

Her hair does it.

In her grief, she seizes great handfuls of her luxurious dark blond hair, and begin to yank at it, viciously. Alarmed, he lays on the bed next to her and holds her hands still, until they calm, until they soften with sleep. Gently, he uncurls her slender fingers, small next to his own. He watches her sleep, her hair a golden halo around her face.  _So very beautiful,_ he thinks. He remembers little more than a week before, when she lit her cigarette in the metro.  _Like an angel._

He brushes her hair back behind her ear. He pulls her close.

_She needs him_.

* * *

When she wakes again, she knows that they aren't leaving. Not today. It was hard enough out in the wastes without a broken spirit. She gradually becomes aware of him – his warmth against her back, an arm curled around her stomach, just below her breasts. Steady, even breathing. She can feel his wildness, his  _maleness,_  tightly controlled - and it frightens her and excites her at the same time.

Drowsily, she entwines her fingers with his – his hand is so large, it practically engulfs her own. She finds herself wondering how his hand would feel, stroking her bare back. He stirs; eases off the mattress, rubs her arm.

She dozes.

* * *

_She had held his hand._

Not out of necessity, but out of comfort.

He covers her with a blanket, and lets her sleep.

Later, he brings some food – her favorite, Blamco Mac and Cheese. He had listened, had paid close attention to his employer's preferences – he was programmed to do so. When he returns for the bowl, it is empty, and she is lying awake, facing the wall – but she doesn't respond when he says her name. What are his orders?  _Come back to me, Olivia._

_I need you._

* * *

That evening, her mind begins to clear. It was as if she was walking in a thick fog, and then, like magic – it lifted.

She finds Charon sitting in a living room chair – no,  _her_  favorite living room chair – hands clenched tightly, breathing evenly, staring at the wall. Waiting for her to wake up. Waiting for orders.  _The ferryman, adrift,_ she thinks.

"Charon?" she utters, and he stands with a start. Slowly, she advances towards him. "I am sorry. So very, very sorry."

"It's okay. You are awake now." He says. He closes the distance between them, places a hand on her shoulder. She allows herself to be guided to a chair, for a glass of whiskey to be placed in her hand. He sits down across from her.

He breaks the silence. "Would you permit me to ask you a question?"

"You just did." She chuckles. "Sorry, bad joke. Sure – go ahead."

"Why did you purchase my contract?"

She takes a deep breath, sips her whiskey. "I heard…that you were miserable. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing."

_That is a load of Brahmin shit_ , Charon thinks. "That's not the whole truth, and you know it."

Olivia stares at the coppery liquid in the glass she has cradled in her lap.  _Moment of truth._  "I…I wanted to start over."

"What do you mean?"

She shifts in her chair. "I've become somewhat of a…celebrity. That has baggage, obligation. I wanted a companion that didn't know me. Someone without judgment. Your situation made it…easier. It seemed right."

"But I have heard of you. The bar had a radio."

_Ah, yes – Three Dog. Damn him._

"You didn't know that's who I was. Did you?" She asks.

"No."  _Well, that's the truth. He doesn't trouble himself about his employer's past – what concerns him is only the orders that they give him._

"Are you okay with that – that I bought your contract because I was selfish?"

_She had to be kidding. What other motives drive one person to buy another?_ "Yes – I am okay with that." He shifts, the chair creaking in protest. "Your intention was kindness."

She smiles.

"So – you're not angry at me? For what I said to you?" she asks. The shame of it still weighs heavy on her heart.

"How could I be? After all this?" he waves his arm, referencing the events of the past two days.

She meets his eyes, deep, direct – "I treated you like…property. Like I owned you. I am truly sorry." She wants to reach for his hand, press it against her face, but she restrains herself. He is practically her slave. It's not right.

"I have been treated worse."

At this admission, tears well up in her eyes. Her breath hitches. Her heart aches, because his cannot. Charon experiences a fleeting moment of panic.  _No, not again. Don't make her cry._ "I did not mean to upset you."

"It's okay." She says.  _The lies we tell ourselves,_ she thinks _. The lies we tell others, so they can rest without worry…_

She dabs her eyes with her sleeve, sniffs. "I suppose we better get ready to go. The whole town is probably talking about us right now." She studies her Pip Boy. "I've been out for…a day and a half! Geez Louise."

"I have packed," Charon says, "I have also repaired some armor for my use, and serviced your weapons."

"Wonderful." She smiles. "We leave at dawn."


	12. On the Road Again

_Strange dreams, a flurry of impressions. Rough skin. Calloused hands caressing her body…_

She fixes them breakfast – mirelurk cakes – and turns on the radio while they eat. As much as Three Dog annoys her, his banter is entertaining.

 _"News time, children!"_ He begins. " _Hey, remember those down-on-their-luck ghouls who wanted to share the luxury accommodations at the fancy shmancy Tenpenny Tower? Looks like they finally got their upscale address! And all it took was the wholesale slaughter of every other Tenpenny resident! Three Dog's all for stickin' it to the Man, but good golly ghoulies—that's a liiittle much."_

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, steadies herself. "I am so tired of other people's problems."

Charon, alert, tips his head inquiringly.

She explains. "A group of ghouls wanted to live in Tenpenny Tower. I was nice enough to help them out; convinced Tenpenny to let 'em in. I guess they weren't as appreciative of my efforts as they led on."

She sighs. "I guess that'll be our first stop. I'd like to see how Roy will explain himself, murdering innocent people."

Charon frowns. "This sounds dangerous."

"Oh, I can handle him."

* * *

She hefts her pack. Charon lifts his, effortlessly, and shoulders the weight without complaint.

 _Tall, strong, silent, follows orders – the perfect man,_  she thinks. Eyes wide, she shoots him a furtive glance, as if certain he can read her mind.  _My God…what's wrong with me?_

"Is there a problem?"

Blushing, she stammers. "N-no. Let's ah…get a move on."

Shaking his head, he thinks,  _a cap for your thoughts, smoothskin._

They exit Megaton quietly, without fanfare. Olivia offers a goodbye wave to Stockholm, and turns west. "Tenpenny Tower, here we come."

* * *

The trip proves longer than expected.

Without fear, Charon begins firing slugs into the attacking yao guai. Olivia finishes it off by luring it into stepping on a bottlecap mine.  _They might be fierce, but at least they aren't too bright,_  she muses. "We're a hell of a team, big guy."

He smiles broadly.  _YES! Finally._

She frowns. "This is the second one we've had to kill. Something's stirring them up. I haven't seen so many in this area before." She consults her Pip Boy. "Ah, raiders probably. Headed to Evergreen Mills. Boy, I'd love to clear that place out – but we've got a date with Roy soon."

After a brief consultation, they decide to give the raiders a wide berth – for now. "I hate to sneak around, but for now, we have no choice. I assume you prefer the direct approach, so try to contain your lack of enthusiasm."

"Understood."

They veer south, then west, in no particular hurry. After all, Roy wasn't going anywhere. Soon, the VAPL-84 Power Station came into view in the distance. She crouches, and consults her Pip Boy. "We should head south – we can bed down in the old RobCo Factory." Charon grunts, satisfied with the order.  _It's better to go into a fight well-rested._

She'd cleared out the RobCo factory months ago, on her first sojourn to Tenpenny Tower, but she can't be certain that raiders hadn't moved in in the interim. She'd set traps when she left, to discourage the more curious marauders. Chemmed up and out of their minds, who knows what those savages would walk into?

Once inside, she tells Charon to stay back while she dismantles her previous booby traps. After setting new traps behind them, they unfurl their bedrolls behind the reception desk – good cover, if a stray raider or two wandered in from the wastes.

They settle in next to each other, backs to the wall. Olivia digs a bottle of whiskey out of her pack. Charon lifts what remains of an eyebrow. "I did not pack that."

"I know. I snuck it in when you weren't lookin', ya square. It makes me think you don't want me having any fun." She takes out her hair tie, tosses her blond mane. That's better.  _Let's poke at him a little._  "So, big guy – truth or dare?" She grins maliciously, twists off the cap, and takes a swig. He cocks his head, much like a confused dog. She laughs. "Okay, ya gotta pick one. Pick truth, and I'll ask you a question. You have to answer truthfully. Pick dare, and I'll dare you to do something. It's a game us kids used to play in the vault."

"I'm not sure about this," he grumbles.

"Of course you're not, I'm not either – that's why it's fun!" Olivia exclaims, in mock exasperation.

"Fun is subjective."

"Square."  _Name-calling. Below-the-belt. He's gotta take the bait now._

He sighs.  _Fine._  "Truth."

"Scaredy pants." She takes a sip, thinking. "Okay – what is your favorite color?"

No hesitation: "Black."

"Black isn't a color, it's the absence of color!"

"Hey, you asked."

 _True, true._  She passes the bottle to him.

"Truth, or dare?" He questions.

"Dare!" she whispers, eyes twinkling with mischief.

 _I gotta make this one count,_  he thinks. She looks at him, expectantly.  _She's waiting for an order…oh, how the tables have turned!_  His eyes drift around the room, and fix on her Pip Boy. "I dare you – to turn on the radio, and dance to the next song on GNR."

"But…I can't dance very good." She whines. She hears Mr. Brotch admonishing her in her mind's ear…  _you can't dance WELL. WELL._  Whatever…pedant.

"Do you still wish to play this game – or not?" he goads.  _The absurdity isn't lost on him- this young woman has killed countless drug-fueled raiders, challenged enormous Super Mutants, crippled the Enclave, and she's afraid to dance? Amusing._

She clambers up from the floor, giving him a fantastic view of her full, round ass. She clicks on the radio. It's halfway through "Butcher Pete," and she starts to shuffle. "No, a whole song. I said a whole song." She sighs. "I knew I wouldn't get away with it, but I had to try." She snatches the whiskey bottle from him, and takes a satisfying gulp. The liquor sears down her throat, spreading blossoms of heat into her belly.  _Liquid courage._  She hands the bottle back, and strides to the center of the room. Charon sets the bottle of whiskey on the reception desk and stands, arms crossed, against the wall.

"Butcher Pete" fades away.

She hears the opening refrain.  _OH NO. Not this._

She sways from side to side, and starts to sing, "I'm as corny as Kansas in August,  
I'm as normal as blueberry pie…"

Charon, unimpressed, shakes his head. He lifts a hand, finger pointed, and draws a circle in the air.  _Twirl._

_Jesus. All right- fake it til ya make it time._

She spins in a parody of enthusiasm, lip-synching.  _Let's give him a good show._

* * *

_She has no idea what that does to me._

He watches her twirl, blond tresses fluttering through the air.  _How could she NOT know?_  For fuck's sake – he may be a ghoul, but he's still very much a man. The programmers didn't take  _that_  from him.

Her hair frames her face, cascading down her shoulders as she sings. She runs her hands through it, shaking her hips.

_Why did I even suggest this?_

He stands still, willing his heart to slow, willing away the heat gathering beneath his belt.

Willing away the tightness.  _No…the hardness. So hard he ached…_

She twirls, twirls, twirls…

* * *

She shakes her hips and shoulders.  _Big finale!_  
_"I'm in love, I'm in love,_  (Twirl, twirl, twirl, towards him) _  
I'm in love, I'm in love,_ (Twirl twirl….SHIT!)

She trips over her own feet, stumbles, closes her eyes, and lands…in his arms. _  
I'm in love with a wonderful guy!"_


	13. With These Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut imminent! Don't say I didn't warn you!

For a moment, it's as if time stops; the world stands still.

He's waited so long…only days, but it feels like an eternity. He can no longer restrain himself. Slowly, deliberately, he brings his rough lips to her neck, tongue flicking her soft, tender skin.

She moans, and melts in his arms. He carries her to their bedrolls.  _Rough clacks, the clink of a buckle._  He removes her armor, more hastily than he intends. She reaches for him… _she wants him to remove his._ He practically tears off his armor, in his haste to touch her.

He straddles her, careful not to injure.  _Control yourself._

On all fours, he lowers, kisses her, savors the sensation of her smooth lips yielding to his passion, her soft, wet tongue flicking, hesitantly meeting his own. He trails wet kisses down her neck, tasting her skin: salty sweat, the dust of the miles they traveled together, and something else…something tantalizing, something unmistakably  _female._  He smells her hair, and a groan of longing escapes him. "Mmmm…"  _Oh yes._ Even in his wildest dreams, he never thought…

Senses heightened, he becomes aware of everywhere their bodies touch. He can feel…oh, he can feel the heat of her soft breasts against his chest, nipples rock-hard, separated only by two thin t-shirts.

She puts her hands on his waist, tugging upward.  _Tugging off his shirt._

Leaning back onto his heels, he crosses his muscular arms, grasps the shirt at the hem, and tears it over his head.

She gasps at his naked chest in wonder, enraptured. She caresses his tight abdominals, no fear or disgust at touching his rended, uneven leathery body, tracing the boundaries of where rough skin broke away to smooth muscle. He shudders deliciously, overcome with pleasure at the sensation of her smooth fingertips trailing down, to his belt line. She squirms beneath him, struggling to remove her own shirt, desperate to feel his chest against her own.

His hands explore beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. Like most women in the wasteland, Olivia doesn't wear a brassiere. He kneads her soft mounds, breathing heavily, heart pounding in his ears. He tips her upward, one rough hand on her back, and she deftly peels off her top and tosses it away. He eases her back down to the floor, nuzzles her hair, and nibbles her ear lobe.

She gasps breathlessly, kneading his rippling back.

"Charon," she whispers. " _I need you."_

Everything swims out of focus. His groin tightens; aches painfully. In a near daze, he undresses her, spreads her legs, and runs his hands up and down her body. Every touch is electric; his fingers eliciting delicious shudders from her. Her eyes close, mouth half-open, her low breathless moans are sweet music to him. Nuzzling her breast, he licks her dusky nipple. Shivers of delight run up and down her spine, the feeling of her quaking with desire for him –  _for him_ – drives him to slow, to savor this moment. Glancing up at her face, he takes her nipple in his mouth and gently,  _ever so gently,_ nips her. She gasps, shudders. His hand strokes her soft pubic curls, searching below, sliding between her warm, wet folds. Hesitantly, he presses a coarse finger against her entrance, and slips it inside her.

She arches her back, a strangled mewl escaping her lips. He could feel –  _oh yes_  – the center of her moisten, and briefly tighten around his digit as she bucks against him. He slips out of her and rubs her clit, smiling as she grasps the bedding, grinding her hips against his calloused hand.

He stops, and stands, slowly. She opens her eyes to meet his. So clear, blue, piercing – desperate to feel him inside of her. A  _clink_  of a belt buckle. The unmistakable sound of metal teeth, unfastening. A rustle of clothing, as his pants fall to the floor, revealing him.  _All of him._

And then -  _and then_  – her hand is grasping him, massaging his engorged shaft. She creeps forward, on hands and knees, and smoothly, expertly, takes him into her mouth. Her eyes close, and she moans with him in her mouth, licking, sucking. He grasps both sides of her head, savoring the sensation of his hands in her hair as he guides her, back and forward. Looking down at his worn, tattered hands in her golden mane, he nearly loses control. He gently pushes her away, and their eyes meet. Her eyes – heavily lidded,  _bedroom eyes_ , he thinks – her lips parted, pouty, swollen in response to intense desire. He lowers himself to his knees between her legs, and she lay back, drawing him with her. Softly, she whispers…" _Oh, Charon…please."_

Slowly, he parts her silken folds with his swollen member. He plunges into her, and she envelops him, as if they were made for each other. Her warm, moist interior spasms rhythmically, and she curls her legs around him, thrusting her hips forward to meet his.  _She wants all of him._

He gasps at her tightness, her wetness, her  _willingness._

Pressing their bodies together, he thrusts slowly, but raw physical need overcomes the remainder of his self-control. Growling, he plunges into her, deeper, rougher, faster. Her whole body shakes. Her low moans become throaty screams of ecstasy, echoing against the walls of the empty factory floor.

His thighs burn with exertion, bringing him closer, closer, and then…she bucks, shudders beneath him, her muscles inside squeeze him tighter than he ever felt possible, pulsing, pulsing – she comes with an explosive, animal cry, and unable to hold himself back from the brink, his guttural shout follows, releasing himself deep inside of her.

Sweaty, panting, spent, he rolls to the side of her, on his back. He gradually feels himself soften. Turning to her, wrapping a heavily muscled arm around her chest, drawing her to him, he thinks,

_I could get used to this._


End file.
